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Message-ID: <33108asstr$1004148604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Just An Admirer" <justanadmirer69@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Story- ExploringThe Emptiness (pt1)
Date: Fri, 26 Oct 2001 22:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

I would like to submit this story for posting. Please let me know if I'm 
doing this wrong or who I need to talk/eamail to. Also, I am thinking of 
applying for an authors account, so I would rather not have people 
reprinting it. Thanks,

UPL


I would greatly appreciate any comments people have on this story, esp. 
women on whether I was close in describing the female orgasm. All 
questions/comments can be emailed. Thanks and hope you enjoy!


                        Exploring The Emptiness




        The last 24 hours have been pretty intense, and I'm not sure that I 
fully grasp the implications yet. After reading this, you might ask if I 
would do it again? At this point, I don't know. Yes, parts I definitely 
will, and other parts with another person, as I think I've learned as much 
as I can about me in this without help.
	We're in the middle of a tremendous snowstorm, 22" of snow predicted in the 
next 36 hours, well 12 now. I'm stranded at my apartment, and the entire 
city is shut down, not that I could get my car out if I needed too. The news 
was reporting that the snowplows were getting stuck last night, but I 
haven't heard anything recently since I've been busy.
	I called my boyfriend at 7 last night to chat. Normally we would be 
together right now, at my apartment, since he has roommates, but he stopped 
home after work and couldn't get out again. We've been having some problems 
lately. Nothing serious, I'm pretty sure we'll end up married. I love him 
with heart and soul, and I believe he does too. But we both need to finish 
some things before we take that step. I need to get through finals in my 
psychology masters, and he needs to get out of his apartment.
	Our problems are mostly me, as I've discovered. He has his faults, but it's 
those quirks that I hate that endear him to me. No, most of our problems are 
mine, in the bedroom.
	On the phone, we talked about our days, work, upcoming plans and the usual 
day to day stuff that makes a healthy relationship. I don't mean to go on, 
but those conversations are what I love the most about him. He really 
listens to me, and offers advice only when I ask. The problem reared its 
ugly head near the end of our conversation, when he told me he missed me, 
then went into a increasingly graphic description of what he missed about 
me. My hair, my breathing, my skin and on until he covered every square inch 
of my body. I loved it, inside, and felt warm and glowing, but for some 
reason, pushed that feelings as they grew inside my head deep, not letting 
them expand, instead just muttering gibberish when I felt a lull in his 
monologue. He asked me what's wrong, and I as usual replied nothing, and he 
pushed gently, to elicit some response from me, which I wouldn't/couldn't 
give him. The more he pried, the more I dragged, until in a quiet voice, 
filled with disappointment and frustration, he said to me  "Sarah, you know 
I love you, and you know I want you, but you have to let me in. I want to be 
with you, to do what you want, but our sex life is getting bad. You won't 
tell me anything, and everything I try you just sits there. I need some 
feedback." I couldn't reply. My mind was blank. Thoughts raced around in my 
head, wanting to tell him all the things I thought, but my terror was too 
great. I had never allowed myself to think consciously some of the things I 
was pushing deeper into my mind, let alone speak them out loud. With a sigh, 
he changed the topic and we ended the call shortly there after.
	Sitting on the couch, staring out the window, I couldn't shake the feeling 
that I was losing him. Sadness seemed to creep in from under the door, 
around the windows, brought by the storm raging outside. The sadness began 
to transform into frustration, and I began to turn that frustration towards 
John. In a huff, I got up and went to the kitchen to get a beer, and 
returned to the couch.
	My apartment is in the older district of town, converted mansions. One of 
the fringe benefits was a working fireplace. For I paid in rent it had 
better work! Before sitting back down, I grabbed some firewood that John and 
I had gotten on a trip to his families cabin in NY, and soon had a fire 
glowing across from me. Still fuming, pointing my anger at John, I sat down 
and took a swig of Fosters.
	As I sat there, growing tenser by the minute, my mind grappling with why 
John was so frustrated with me, a new thought suddenly reared up like a 
flashing neon sign. I mentioned that I'm a psyche major? Well, I occurred to 
me that I needed to take perhaps a clinical approach to the situation. What 
kind of help could I give a patient if I couldn't even figure out my own 
dilemmas? So I took a deep breath and went back to the beginning. All John 
was asking for was a little input from me. Why? I never said no to sex, I 
gave him blowjobs, and for the most part wen along with his ideas. Maybe 
that was the problem, I went along. Why? Why didn't I more actively 
participate? No answers leaped out at me. So again, I went back to the 
beginning. The very beginning this time.
	My first sexual memory was about 9, sliding down the banister and a weird 
feeling in-between my legs. I didn't put much thought into it, just kept 
sliding when it seemed like fun until I got too big and my parents made me 
stop. After that, I remember staring in the mirror at various times, 
checking the growth of chest, which never got very big, 34b's if you must 
know, and eventually the hairs covering my crotch.
	At fifteen, my friends were always talking about boys and who had done what 
with them, and everyone was always ahead of me. I dated, as high schoolers 
do, for a few months with a few guys, and eventually let one of them put his 
hand in my panties. That's was a realization, I let him. I didn't really 
think one way or another about it. I don't recall being overly excited about 
it, not to say I wasn't excited, as I can remember his fingers sliding 
easily between my folds from my wetness. I just didn't really think about 
it. It wasn't unpleasant, in fact I enjoyed it, but I didn't need it.
This went on through high school, and I went to college. I became apparent 
after my roommate started her bringing her boyfriend over for the night that 
actual sex was what was expected now. Again, very passive. My first time was 
with a guy I was with for about 3 weeks. He tried hard to make it special, 
but I was scarred and aloof about it, so it didn't go well. I remember him 
pushing, pushing against me, until he hit the mark and I suddenly felt very 
full, down there, and could feel his heat.
After that I had a succession of about 3 guys who I dated, all of whom I 
slept with to varying degrees. I enjoyed sex, I thought, willing to try new 
positions, even learning to give a blowjob. Like I said, I enjoyed it, but I 
wasn't desperate if it wasn't around.
And that brings us to john. We met senior year, and he swept me off my feet. 
He did all the little things that mean so much to me. He never forgot 
anything like dates, was always on time or called to tell me was late. He 
listened and he cared. He also probed, until I found myself realizing that I 
wanted him to know everything about me.
And so here we are today. I love him, and I want him to be happy, but I can 
also see his frustration. I let myself be penetrated. I don't initiate it. I 
wondered how I would feel if everytime I wanted to be held, I had to go 
"talk him into it"? He instinctively reaches out to me, putts his arms 
around me and holds me. Why couldn't I return the favor? Sex wasn't just 
about him, I realized, it was a joint activity. I had read and read and seen 
hundreds of counseling sessions where the woman needed to learn to enjoy 
herself, and sex would no longer be an issue. My god, I'm one of those 
women!
I sat stunned. It had never occurred to me that I didn't like sex. No, not 
that I don't like sex, its just not important to me. I had orgasms when John 
went down on me, again an activity initiated by him, but they didn't seem 
all that necessary.
I went to the kitchen to get another beer, pondering this latest development 
and how to remedy the situation. Why wasn't I interested? I threw some more 
logs on the fire and curled my legs under me on the couch as I stared at the 
white wall cascading past the window outside. Not knowing where else to 
start, I decided to make a list of what I liked about sex in my head. I 
liked the closeness, I liked to watch my partners face as he came, I liked 
the feeling of having given someone pleasure. And that was it. That was I 
could think of. I couldn't think of any positions I liked, none really 
seemed to even come to mind. When I thought about it, my mind wandered from 
lack of information. I didn't know what I liked.
        That's it! I almost spilled my drink as I realized it. I don't know 
what I like. I had only masturbated a few times, and that was for a 
boyfriend. He gave directions, and I followed. I never pleasured myself 
alone, in fact I never thought about it. No wonder I wasn't able to give 
back with John, hell with any of my boyfriends. I didn't have anything to 
give back.
Well, I guess I need to find out what I like. So I thought about what turns 
me on.


That's it. Nothing came to mind. I thought about movies, hot sex scenes. I 
was always analyzing them. Same with books. Guys just were attractive or 
not. Women are beautiful, but not something that turned my engine over. 
Great. I could feel the frustration setting back in as I wondered what 
turned me on. I couldn't think of a single thing. For 10 minutes, I sat, 
trying to turn myself on, my mind blank. Well, I guess I'll have to start 
somewhere else. What turns John on? John's a guy, and guys like to look at 
things. Good a place as any. I grabbed my beer, half full, and headed to my 
room.
Standing in front of my mirror, I looked at myself, and tried to see what 
John saw. Staring back at me, I saw a pretty woman. Not a model by any 
means, but a pretty face, framed by longish brunet hair, lightly curling as 
fell behind my shoulders. My eyes were green with long lashes, and my 
cheekbones accentuated them nicely. My nose wasn't too big, but perhaps a 
little full for my face, and turned upwards at the tip. My mouth was small, 
but the lips were full. My neck was thin, almost delicate looking, and the 
PJ top I was wearing opened in the front enough to see my collarbones and 
the crevices they created. I couldn't see much more than that, I only stand 
5'4", so a lot of me was not reflected in the mirror. I took in the view and 
found it not unpleasant.
Almost unconsciously, I reached to my waist and pulled the PJ top up over my 
head and dropped it on the floor next to me. My breasts now stared back at 
me as I tried to see what John saw. The certainly didn't look huge, but 
full. They were high on me, not sagging at all, and hung slightly off to the 
sides, blurring the view of the cut of my torso in front of my arms. My 
nipples were pink; the areola's slightly bigger than a quarter, the actual 
nipple thick in the center. As I stood thee staring at my breasts, a chill 
blew through the room and I watched, in some amazement, as the nipples 
seemed to contract, and grow, until they stood out, hard, like overgrown 
pencil erasers.
Still watching in the mirror, I moved each of hands up until they cupped one 
of my breasts, and pushed them together, making cleavage. I reminded me of 
looking at an ass crack. Spreading my fingers, nipple popped out per tit, 
and I pinched them lightly between my splayed fingers. A small shiver went 
up my spine as I concentrated on the sensations. My nipples felt good hard 
like this. I could feel the heat of my fingers surrounding them. Releasing 
my hands from cupping my breasts together, I moved an opposing hand across 
my chest and pinched the nipple between my index finger and thumb, gradually 
applying more pressure. The more I squeezed, the better it felt, and warmth 
seemed to bloom inside my tit. Relaxing my grip, I began pinching and 
releasing the hard point sticking out from me, reveling in its 
manipulations. I remembered John twisting them as he played with them, so I 
tried it, pinching down and twisting a little. It felt wonderful. After a 
minute, I seemed to have grown accustomed to the pressure and plateaued, or 
bored with it, so I let go and dropped my hand. I stared as I saw my nipple 
that I had been fondling was hard and big, noticeably bigger than the other, 
which was still hard, but hadn't received any attention.
I figured I was this far, I might as well keep going, so I took a breath and 
dropped my pants, stepping out of them and kicking them on top of the top. 
In the mirror, I could see my full figure to my hips. For the first time I 
noticed the cut of my waist, or rather the swell of my hips. My waist was 
very defined, and I put my hands to it, trying to touch my fingers around my 
stomach. When I squeezed my middle, my fingers were a half-inch shy of 
touching. Not too bad f I say so myself.
Peeking just above the top of my dresser in the reflection, I could see a 
few wisps of my hair. Placing my hands on top of the dresser, I stood on my 
toes, to get a better look, but was distracted as my breasts swayed forward. 
I marveled at they hung from me, my nipples still hard and pointing at the 
bottom section of mirror. I rocked back and forward once, watching them 
sway, almost independent of me, but still feeling their fullness, their 
weight as the moved.
Standing back flatfooted, I sighed and thought. Turning, I opened the door 
to my closet and faced the full length mirror hung on the back of the door. 
I stared at my crotch, the hair covering it. I shaved my legs as all girls 
do, and in the summer trimmed the bikini line farther in for swimsuits, and 
kept the rest of it trimmed down to a manageable length when needed, but 
never spent anymore time than that on it. Staring, I could just see the 
split between my outer folds through the hair. I spread my legs to shoulder 
width and still didn't really see what John was so fascinated with. I 
grabbed the mirror and pulled it off the hook it hung on and put it on the 
floor and straddled it, looking down. Still all I saw a tangle of hair.
Bending over, I put the mirror on the floor, leaning against the bed, and 
lay on my back in front of it, my feet on the floor and knees up. Spreading 
my legs, I propped up on my elbows and looked at the reflection. Still a 
tangled mess looked back at me. In all honesty, it wasn't much to look at. 
So, with a sigh, I got up and went to the bathroom.
I turned the water in the sink on hot, and put the toilet lid down. Reaching 
in the shower, I grabbed my razor and gel and sat down on the toilet. COLD! 
I leaped up and grabbed the hand towel by the door and spread it across the 
seat and sat back down. By now the water was steaming in the sink, so pulled 
the stopper and threw the razor in. Having never done this before, I felt 
awkward as I sprayed gel on my hand tried to apply it to the fur covering my 
pussy. I can't believe I just said pussy. Gave me goosebumps. But anyway, I 
finally found that propping on foot up on the edge of the bath tub worked 
best, and put a full lather all over my mound. I almost burned myself when I 
stuck my hand in the sink to get the razor, but it was nice and warm. 
Carefully I but the blade to my skin and pulled it across the top of my 
mound, taking an inch swath of hair with it. Well, no turning back now that 
I have a mohawk through my pubes. So began scraping away the lathered hair. 
It was quite nice actually, but shaving the two outer folds was a pain. My 
fingers were all slippery and it was hard to get enough of a grip to hold 
the lip taught enough to shave. Once I had gotten it all off, a 10 minute 
project, I threw the razor in the trash and grabbed a fresh one. I 
re-latherd my crotch and went over the whole thing again with the fresh 
razor, hoping to be able to avoid a rash. Done. I drained the sink, and ran 
my wash cloth under some warm water and wiped away the remaining lather. The 
hot fabric felt new and exciting as it moved across my freshly bared skin. 
Finished, I stood, grabbed the hand towel and dried my now bare pussy.
Leaving the mess to clean later, I went back to my room and assumed my 
position on the floor on my back in front of the mirror. The reflection now 
was amazing. I couldn't believe the intricacies being played out between my 
legs. Propped on my elbows, staring at my pussy in the mirror, I marveled at 
how complex it was. The inner lips, seemingly squeezed out from me by the 
outers, folded and bent together like a jigsaw puzzle. The outer edges of 
those delicate little parts of me were dark, but since the protruded and 
fell to the side, I could see how pink they were. I sat staring at myself 
for a good 5 minutes. It was less a turn on than an appreciation. I had seen 
naked women before, Playboy mostly, but never paid any attention. Now I 
could see the beauty, aesthetically to what lay between our legs. I thought 
of John, and how shocked he would be if he saw me like this, staring at my 
pussy in a mirror, BALD none the less. I got a wicked little thought in my 
head and rolled over. He liked to do me doggy style, so got on my hands and 
knees, thrusting my ass as high as I could and peered back over my shoulder.
The first thing that got my attention was my wide spread ass. I had never 
realized how open I was in this position. The second thing I noticed was how 
ugly my ass was, or rather the crack. While my pussy was clean and pink, my 
ass crack was full of little dark hairs. In less than a second, I was 
heading back to the bathroom and razor.
You cannot believe how hard it is to shave your ass. Well, maybe you can if 
you other girls do. It took 10 minutes just to find a way to bend over, have 
access to the sink and a view in the mirror to avoid and BAD cuts. After 
toweling off, I got down on all fours again in front of my mirror in the 
bedroom.
Now staring back at me was a pinkish brown puckered little area. It wasn't 
disgusting as I had feared, but colored the same as my inner folds. I 
couldn't believe how little distance there was between my asshole and the 
end of my pussy. My pussy itself was now splayed open slightly, the folds 
having come "unglued" if you will and hanging slightly parted. Turning away 
from the mirror but leaving my ass stuck up; I folded my arms and rested my 
chin upon them. I felt my nipples just brush the carpeting as I closed my 
eyes and tried to just feel the newness. I opened my eyes when I realized I 
was rocking back and forth, brushing my nips across the carpet.
Standing, I went to the bed and lay down. My mind seemed to have closed down 
a bit, I wasn't really thinking about anything, I just lay there. My hands 
began drifting over my stomach, feeling the muscles beneath. I wasn't a work 
out kind of girl, but I tried to stay fit and active. I cupped my breasts 
again and pinched my nipples, watching them grow as I looked down at myself. 
I became aware of my pussy, exposed between my comfortably spread legs as it 
moistened. It felt like my mouth, salivating, but between my legs. I'd never 
paid any attention to the sensations of getting wet before, I just was when 
needed. Now I just let it happen, my pussy slowly lubing as my nipples began 
to softly ache as they hardened further. My hands drew steadily nearer the v 
of my legs, until they rested just at the junction of each leg to waist, my 
fingertips just resting on my outer lips.
I felt myself lick my lips, and how ever nerve seemed to be heightend. I 
felt the smooth comforter on my back and butt, the air on my thighs. 
Concentrating, I breathed steadily and moved one hand down, between my legs, 
the other over so that it rested right on my mound. The hand between my legs 
moved lower, just touching. My pussy felt smooth and dry. I could feel my 
inner lips distended from in-between my outers. I felt so soft. At that 
exact moment, I became aware of a new sensation. My eyes popped open as I 
felt movement. Startled, I took a minute to collect myself. There it was 
again! On my asshole! The hand between my legs moved lower, to the skin 
between my pussy and the start of my ass. It was wet! I giggled to myself, 
realizing I was actually dripping! I let my middle finger rub the wetness 
around there, the no-mans land, while I pushed my other hand on top of my 
mound down, pressuring just above my pussy. The feeling was amazing.
Slowly, with just my middle finger, I drew my hand upwards, pressing the 
finger against myself. It slid easily from the moisture leaking out of me, 
until it dipped in-between my folds, right at the actual hole the covered. I 
gasped a little and continuing to draw my hand up, my finger running between 
the two delicate lips that so carefully guarded me. They separated easily, 
my finger gliding through as if no resistance. I couldn't believe how wet I 
was. Then the second shock hit, as my finger made direct contact with my 
clit. I shuddered and involuntarily pressed my other hand harder against my 
mound. Gently, I probed the little button poking out from me. It was hard, 
and so tender. I ran my finger around it, then over it, feeling how it 
pointed at the top. I have never experienced anything like it. Even when 
John licks me, it felt good, but nothing like this. The hard little bud sent 
shocks up my spine and down to me feet whenever my finger made contact. I 
started to rub it, up and down, until I felt the moisture wearing off. I 
dipped my finger back down to collect more. When I did, I found the entrance 
to my tunnel, without thinking pushing the probing finger in, and in until 
the rest of my hand prevented any more.
There were so many sensations I was reeling from input overload. Between my 
clit which seemed to still be sending input despite be left alone, to the 
heat I felt inside from my finger, to the wetness in my ass as more 
continued to leak out from within me. My breathing was coming in ragged, 
short breaths, and back had arched, my head twisted to the side.
After a moment of stillness, I curled the finger deep inside my pussy, 
feeling it scrape the sidewalls until it hit the top. There I curled more, 
dragging across a rough patch as I pushed down with my other hand atop my 
mons. A deep heat emanated from within and spread throughout my body, 
causing every muscle to contract, my toes curling and eyes screwing shut. I 
straightened my finger inside and curled again, and repeated, as if 
beckoning someone to come from across the way. This caused shaking from the 
pleasure, and I felt a steady stream of wetness pouring out around my finger 
and down over my tightened little asshole. I wish I could think of a better 
word for it, but that's what it is. The heat throughout my body intensified 
as I beckoned within myself, but my clit began to send signals of own, of 
neglect. I moved my other hand, which had been pressing against the out side 
of pussy down, and slowly withdrew the finger from inside.
	This gave me a momentary sense of relief, and I opened my eyes. Turning my 
head to center again, I gazed down between my spread legs and pulled my hand 
which had been inside up and clear, my middle finger still pointing straight 
out. In the light of the room, I could see it gleam from the moisture 
covering it, a single drop, like a raindrop dangling off the fingertip pad. 
Groaning, I fell back, moving my hands together to their destinations. My 
coated finger plunged back between my folds and drew up, zeroing in my clit, 
while I plunged my other hand's middle finger into my hole, sliding easily 
in the copious wet.
	In unison, I rubbed alternating circles and flicks across the hardened, 
erect bud at the top of my sex, while my other finger beckoned inside, 
drawing me on. The sensations built, and unrelenting pressure building, like 
the weight of the ocean when you dive for shells, constricting me, my 
breathing difficult at best, heat shimmering off my skin-
I convulsed; spasm'd twitching across the bed as every muscle in my body 
began to flex. I couldn't have remained still if I'd wanted, my body had 
turned off control from my mind. Feelings I had never had before cascade my 
mind, my heart pounding faster with each breath as a cry/groan pushed its 
way out of my mouth, heedless of the clamping jaw that tried to keep inside. 
Still I bucked my fingers still at their respective targets, until my legs 
clamped together in unison, driving my finger from my clit.
That seemed to slow the seizure, the finger inside me still beckoning the 
smooth hard spot deep inside me seemingly of its own valition as I had no 
control over it, trapped inside by my clamped legs. Slowly I became aware of 
myself as the pressure relented, aware of the almost cry escaping my 
clenched mouth. Sense came back with a rush, and I felt me feet on the verge 
of cramping, my toes curled almost to my heel, my stomach taught and 
straining against some invisible force upon it, and finger inside, still 
calling to its spot.
And I felt the contractions, which started at my shoulders, traveled down my 
chest and stomach and culminated inside me, contractions against my invading 
finger that awed me with their strength. The walls of my tunnel clamped 
around my finger like a Chinese finger trap, and still it continued its 
stroke, rubbing the small irregular spot on the tunnel wall.
Finally as small aftershocks trembled within parts of me, I regained control 
of my finger imbedded in my sex and willed it to stop, my legs collapsing to 
my sides as it did, and my eyes closed and there was nothing but darkness.


  (end pt1)
  (pt2 if people like)

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